


Whatever A Spider Can

by danger_floof



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Not Canon Compliant, Science, Tumblr Prompts, clint and natasha are roommates, daredevil if you squint, natasha doesn't believe in Spider-Man, possibly inaccurate depictions of Frito pie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 01:02:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5437664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danger_floof/pseuds/danger_floof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint would like to state for the record that it wasn’t his fault.</p><p>Mostly.</p><p>(Wherein Clint has climbing envy, Tony doesn't give good directions, and Spider-Man is a myth ... or is he?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatever A Spider Can

**Author's Note:**

> This is not compliant with AoU or whatever they're planning to do with Spider-Man in the MCU. Or, for that matter, with any of the Spider-Man movies. My headcanon Spider-Man is Andrew Garfield with actual spider powers so that is what you get.

Clint would like to state for the record that it wasn’t his fault.

Mostly.

Almost entirely.

Like 85% not his fault.

At least 60% not his fault.

Whatever, fuck you, it was an awesome idea.

 ***

“So what I thought was, why not some kind of adhesive?” he says to Tony, in between bites of vanilla pudding layered with nasty-ass fake whipped cream. “I could get in and out of position way quicker. And there would be less of the, you know …” With his unbroken hand, he mimes a trajectory complete with descending whistle. A dollop of pudding falling off the spoon gives a nice visual aid, but the movement jogs his broken collarbone and he winces.

“Jumping off of buildings like a suicidal dumbass?” Nat suggests. She’s perched on the edge of his bed, carving her initials into his cast with the tip of a knife. Well … carving somebody’s initials anyway. Hard to say with Nat. 

Tony, slumped in a chair on the other side of the bed, lowers his sunglasses just long enough to shoot them both a look. He’s got a bruise on one cheek and looks hungover. Clint’s pretty sure that can’t be true, they were fighting until 4 a.m. and it’s only seven now. When would he have had time? Unless he’s got one of those hands-free water bottles built into the suit and filled with booze. 

Which, what an awesome idea, he should tell … no. One suggestion at a time. He learned that the hard way with the poison-dart gloves and the knockout arrows. He scratched his neck while they were testing the prototypes and the next thing he knew, it was 20 minutes later and Stark had drawn a dick on his forehead. And Nat had put her initials on it.

Somebody’s initials, anyway.

“You want sticky pads on your hands and feet so you can go straight up walls,” Stark says now, flatly. “Like Spider-Man?”

Clint and Nat share an eye roll. “Tony, for the last time, there’s no such thing as Spider-Man,” she says, not even trying not to sound condescending. “It’s an urban myth.”

“That’s what you said about the blind ninja, and look how that turned out,” he shoots back, gesturing at the TV.

Clint winces. Grainy footage of a blind guy kicking three cops’ asses has been playing on a constant loop for like three days. They had to hire a service to field all the calls about why the Avengers aren’t doing anything about it. “Because evil robots in Ohio” was apparently not the right answer. Or as the guy from the Daily Bugle put it, “Who cares about Ohio?”

Natasha makes a face. It’s not a good face. It’s the face of a woman who’s spent those same three days listening to people compare her fighting style to a random guy with a freaking scarf tied around his head. Sure, he won, but still. It took three and a half minutes and he got half the crap kicked out of him. If it had been Nat, the fight would have been over in fifteen seconds and none of them would have landed a punch.

Plus, unlike when she’s on TV, no one is talking about this Devil guy’s ass, fashion sense or diet. It’s got to be pissing her off bad.

“And yet, still not believing in a half-man, half-spider hybrid,” she says with just a trace of an edge. 

A trace is more than enough to get Tony looking wary, because he is actually as smart as people say. But it’s not enough to shut him up, because he also has as much of a death wish as people say. Maybe more. “Not a hybrid,” he says. “Just a man with super spider powers. It could happen. I have a nuclear reactor in my chest and Banner –”

“Spider powers like what? The ability to lurk in the bathroom late at night and scare the crap out of people?” Clint says, not worried about interrupting because a) they all know what Banner does and b) Tony never lets anyone else finish a sentence.

“The ability to be easily trapped under a cup and released outside?” Nat offers.

“The ability to manufacture a substance with a higher tensile strength than steel,” Tony says. “Also, the climbing walls thing. Which, as I understand it, is what you’re after here. Can I have some pudding?”

“No,” Clint says, curving an arm around it protectively and then wincing again. “Not unless you make me sticky pads and shut up about Spider-Man.”

He gets half of what he wanted, which seems fair, because the pudding is terrible.

*** 

Three months later, they’re home in the Tower – well, really just Clint is home because Nat’s gone on some wild goose chase to Eastern Europe with Steve. Again. People act surprised that he doesn’t mind, but a) not his girlfriend, b) not his business even if she was except he might, like, pack her a lunch. Oh, and c) he loves the freedom. People have no idea the judgy looks she gives him for eating Frito pie with his fingers while watching terrible action movies on late-night TV. Which is exactly what he’s doing when Tony knocks.

It says a lot about the team dynamic that Tony doesn’t even blink at Clint’s Captain America t-shirt and smiley face boxers, or the bowl of admittedly not-that-appetizing sludge in, on and around his hands.

“Okay Katniss, here are your toys,” he says. “It’s been thirty-eight hours since I slept and Jarvis keeps clearing his throat in a significant manner, which is amazing considering that he doesn’t even have a throat …”

“Merely resetting my vocal circuits, sir,” Jarvis’ voice says, calm as always, from the hall ceiling. Clint has the AI turned off in his apartment because he was traumatized by Hal 9000 at a young age, and also, he doesn’t like surveillance he didn’t install himself. Nothing personal.

Tony waves a hand in some kind of gesture that his invisible butler probably knows how to interpret. “… so let’s put off field testing until tomorrow.”

Clint wipes his own hand on his boxers and accepts a roll of what looks like cling film. “Okay?” he says. “Are we baking or what?”

“Baking? No, although I could really go for some cookies …” Tony, who is always bored with conversations before anyone else even knows what they’re about, looks ready to trail off to the kitchen. Clint and Jarvis both reset their vocal circuits at the same time. “Oh, right. No, it’s that sticky stuff you wanted. Basically like double-sided tape, but stronger and also more awesome, obviously. It should bond to your ahmmmmpffnn” – the word is lost in a huge yawn – “and hold up the weight of your body.”

“Yessss!” Clint fist-pumps with the hand holding the bowl and then winces at the sound of beans and MSG spattering across the living room ceiling. “Thanks, man. Get some sleep, you look half-dead.”

“The better half, obviously,” Tony says automatically. “Enjoy your … whatever that is, Legolas.”

“Well, it ain’t lembas bread, but it’ll do,” Clint says to his back as he shuffles off towards the elevator. There’s no reaction. Whatever, Clint’s jokes are awesome.

He shuts the door and hugs the roll to his chest. Now that the TV is muted, there’s some muffled noise coming from Bruce’s apartment next door. Sounds like voices – does he have a guest? Maybe a lady guest? Because if so then all Clint can say is about freaking time. 

Not that he’s one to talk. Sure, he lives with the world’s most beautiful woman, but it’s not like that’s a help. Turns out other women are maybe not so happy to meet his roommate, and the feeling seems mutual. It’s easier not to bother.

Speaking of the world’s most beautiful woman, his phone plays the first few bars of “Female of the Species.” It’s a text from Nat – they’re inbound, ETA five hours. That should be plenty of time to get his dirty underwear off the kitchen counter and yesterday’s cereal bowl from the bedroom floor. He may or may not get around to cleaning them, but he can at least switch them places.

After that, he takes a look around the living room. Pizza boxes on the couch, that’s fine. One of them still has a slice and a half left, and knowing Nat post-mission, she’ll want it. Other than that everything seems pretty cle … his gaze lands on the bowl of Frito pie, stops, then swivels slowly upward. The ceiling is at least twelve feet high and covered in a very artistic pattern of tomato sauce, Frito crumbs, and bits of hamburger. Oh, and some nacho cheese. 

Clint is five foot eight. He has no ladder. And if he puts another grappling hook into the ceiling, Nat’s going to make him eat _that_ with nacho cheese.

Just as slowly, his eyes swivel down to the roll of sticky stuff on the coffee table.

*** 

It’s really amazing how many of Clint’s stories contain the phrase “And that’s when it all started to go wrong.”

 ***

Granted, at first it seems to be going great. The stuff is already laser-cut to shape, as it turns out – he just has to peel off the backing and put his palms and feet on it. Crawling up the wall is everything Tony never bothered to promise – easy and smooth as climbing a rope. Clint braces himself at the top, feet pressed against the wall and one hand stuck to the ceiling.

Most of the gunk comes off easily. There are just a few spots left out of reach, so he has to stretch and scrub a little. Then he tries to peel his palm away, planning to use his legs to turn the drop into more of a jump onto the sofa.

Which would be great, except his hand doesn’t come off.

He pulls. Then he shakes the rest of his arm a little to joggle it loose. Then he pulls again, until the skin on his palm starts to hurt. The film seems to have completely fused to his skin and the drywall.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

This isn’t the worst situation he’s ever been in, but it has the potential to be in the top five most embarrassing. Worse than that time he ripped a hole in his uniform in Morocco and had to be airlifted out wearing pink harem pants, but still better than Budapest. And on top of that, his barely-healed collarbone is starting to hurt. Too much more of this, and it’s going to be screaming.

While he hangs, considering his options, there’s another burst of voices from Bruce’s place. Of course! Banner’s still up! If anyone can fix Tony’s fuckup, it’s him. Hell, it’s practically his second career at this point.

Carefully, Clint balances his weight between his arm and the opposite leg. He pulls his foot off the wall (breathing a silent sigh of relief when it detaches easily) and then slams his heel back into it as hard as he can.

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

There’s a sudden hush from next door. Shit, do they think he wants them to quiet down? Since when has he ever cared? Clint thought Bruce knew he could sleep through anything up to, and apparently including, a helicarrier crashing outside his window. (And wasn’t that an awkward conversation when he woke up. As explanations go, “Concussion and a white noise app on my phone” didn’t go over any better than “Evil robots in Ohio.”)

He tries again, and then again. _Thump. Thump._ After a few tries, he gets frustrated and speeds it up. _Thumpthumpthump._ Then a little harder. _Thump THUMP THUMP._

Time passes. He’s not sure how much. It’s hard to tell and yep, that is indeed his collarbone screaming. Finally, thank God, there’s rustling outside his door.

“Clint?” Bruce calls through the panels. “Are you okay?”

“Bruce!” Clint yells back, and resists the urge to make any kind of pun. “I’m stuck, I need help! Get Jarvis to open the door.”

A nerve-wracking minute passes, but he can hear voices out there. And besides, Bruce isn’t the type to wander off.

“He says you disabled his privileges,” Bruce says. “Something about Skynet.”

Not for the first time, Clint curses his SHIELD-trained paranoia. “Can you get in some other way?” he says. “I can’t hang around like this for much longer.”

“Have you fallen and you can’t get up?” a new voice inquires. It’s male, young, and has that slightly-too-fast manic quality Clint’s learned to associate with geniuses. It’s like their brains are always a few steps ahead and their mouths are just trying to keep up. Another science bro, then, not a lady friend. Or possibly a boy toy who's also a science bro, Clint supposes. If so, good for the big guy.

“Kind of the opposite,” he yells back. Let Boy Genius figure that one out.

More talking outside. He thinks he hears Bruce say, “Are you sure?” and a muffled but confident-sounding reply.

“Okay, buddy,” Boy Genius says at last. “I think I might be just the person to help you. Hang tight.”

“Kind of my only option at the moment,” Clint says, but he’s not sure if they heard him. Everything goes silent again for a really, really long time. Well, probably like a minute, but it feels much longer than a standard-issue 60 seconds, okay?

Finally, he hears more rustling – but this time, from the opposite direction. His head snaps around just in time to see the kid’s face appear in his window. As expected, it’s young: early 20’s at most, angular with a wide mouth and unruly dark hair. All completely normal, except for the fact that it’s 47 stories up a sheer wall. And also sideways.

“What in the –” Clint starts. The face grins, then one hand appears and sticks to his window like a suction-cup. The skinny arm attached to it jerks, and the windowpane comes right out of the frame. For once in his life, Clint is speechless.

“Hi,” the kid says. “I’m Peter.”

“Uh … Clint.” For a second, neither of them moves. Clint can’t keep from staring at him. “Mind if I ask how you’re doing that? Did Tony give you some of his super sticky stuff too?”

Peter grins again and starts pulling the rest of his body through the frame. It’s lanky and wiry, but not unusually so. He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt for some band Clint’s never heard of, and he doesn’t seem to have on any special equipment or even safety gear. “No,” he says, “and can I just mention how wrong that sounds? Although props to an old guy for getting it all the way up to the ceiling.”

“He didn’t, I – never mind.” Clint’s proud of himself for stopping before he digs himself into a hole. This time. Speaking of which … “I will pay you cash money to call him an old guy to his face.”

“Not a chance.” Peter’s crawling across the ceiling now, as calmly as if he were strolling on the floor. His feet are bare, and his toes and fingers stick to the drywall and then release with a faint ‘pop’ when he moves. “I’m trying to get him to give me an internship. The whole artist-photographer thing was fun for a while, but I feel like I could be doing more with my life. Really giving back to the world. You know?”

“Sure,” says Clint, who shoots things for a living. “Can you get me down now?”

Peter leans close to examine his hand. “Sure, I think so.” He detaches one of his own hands – that popping sound is really starting to freak Clint out – and digs a little bottle of something out of his pocket. “It’s the cling film that Tony made, right? Bruce already designed a solvent for the adhesive. I think he figured something like this might happen. Hang on, this might feel a little cold.”

Clint stifles a shriek as liquid ice flows across his palm. The film finally detaches, and he has just enough presence of mind left to push off and take his swan dive as planned. He spends the next couple of minutes massaging his shoulder and hissing while Peter crawls down the wall face-first in a leisurely fashion and wanders out to tell Bruce the party is over. To Clint’s surprise, he then comes back in and perches on the arm of the couch. Eventually, looking bored, he digs through the pizza boxes and starts eating the leftover pizza.

“I swear to god, I’m going to kill Tony,” Clint says when he can talk again. “Double-sided tape my ass.”

Peter swallows and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Something’s odd about the skin on the inside of his wrist, although Clint can’t quite tell what. “You’re not supposed to put it on your bare skin,” he says calmly. “It’s for use over gloves.”

Gloves. That was the word Tony’s yawn covered. Clint feels like an idiot, and as usual, that kind of pisses him off. “How do you know? Who the hell are you?”

The kid, disarmingly, looks chagrined. “Aww man, sorry, I thought you knew! Tony said he talks about me all the time. Plus, you know, he based this whole project on my skin chemistry.”

Clint feels his eyes getting wide, but he can’t seem to stop them. There’s a tingling going up his spine, and a buzzing in his ears. There’s no way this is going where he thinks it’s going. No way.

“Peter Parker,” says Peter, leaning forward and extending his hand. Clint can see the sticky pads on it, glistening slightly. Now that it’s closer, the spinnerets on his wrist are easy to see, too. “I’m Spider-Man.”

*** 

When Natasha gets home, the first thing she says is “Why are there footprints on the ceiling?” The second thing she says is “ _Who the hell is lurking in the bathroom?_ ”

Peter turns out to be very, very fast on his feet and also, as previously noted, a fast talker. He gets the internship. Clint gets away with a flesh wound. Bruce and Tony laugh for a week.

It’s the beginning of a beautiful friendship. And also, totally not Clint’s fault.

Mostly.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written from this [Tumblr prompt set](http://damnian-wayne.tumblr.com/post/116929887946/aus-that-i-want-we-both-left-our-fiances-at-the), specifically: "I glued my hand to the ceiling by accident and my roommate isn’t home so I spent twenty minutes kicking the wall until you came over to yell at me AU"
> 
> As soon as I read it, I knew it had to be Clint. Because Clint.


End file.
